My last post was pretty good, I thought. Regardless if you like the Red Sox, just history, America or baseball in general.

Some more responses , please?

Traipsing through the Centuries of Boston Beantown...
Jan 04, 2008 | 11:40AM

PS: Tim Raines for the Hall of Fame!

I was following my favorite baseball game Website "GameCenter", in particular the Giants and D-backs, when Mr. Bonds reached the 750 milestone. We don't have television for the rest of this summer (2007), so this is how I "watch" the game.

It has been a new and innovative way to observe the nations's pasttime; I began in earnest by doing this back in 2001-2002, seeing the end of my all-time favorite player, Tim Raines, finish off his career through the Internet. When I first became enamored with him in 1981, I am pretty sure we did not even get ESPN, let alone ESPN televising games from MLB as they eventually contracted some time in the early/mid 1990s.

But back to 750 home runs...

Presently achieved by a superb albeit controversial athlete. 

My post is going further in scope than only this one man, and his inextricably linked stats.

This is dealing with history, culture and identity. Heroes. Icons. Definitions of collective and individual existence.

Babe Ruth deserves all the credit and fame for pioneering the Home Run as we know it. He captivated the imagination with power and grace. He put a quantity on a quality that us commoners and even the so-called sporting elite deem "excellence".

And keep in mind, my favorite player was a top 5 base stealer, and wound up with a mortal 170 career dingers.

But what is it about the Home Run that has rendered us into little school boys? (and girls, Lisa and Carolyn!)

I believe that that is precisely where it starts. Grade school, or as I called it, elementary school. Elm Heights. Bloomington, Indiana. Built in 1926. The year evokes echoes of the past. I began attendance in 1976. A resonant year of national stature.

School. Home. Kindergarden. Radio. Day games. Summer. 1st grade. Dad. Mom. Hot dogs. Gloves and mitts. 2nd grade. Little league. TV. WGN. TBS. TWIB. Saturday's game of the week. 3rd grade. Take me out to the ball game. Coach. Catch. Keep your eye on the ball. Whiffle ball. 4th grade. Competition. Spelling bee. Run home and slide "SAFE". 5th grade. Rhino. The Penguin. Bull. Jody Davis. King of the Wild Frontier. Going, going, gone. It could be, it might be, IT IS! Holy Cow! Cubs win! Cubs win! Cubs win!

(My apologies to cuzzifer and other Cub non-fans; I became an avid Montreal fan at age 11, but a piece of me has always pulled for the perennial losers, and Haray Caray and Steve Stone trained me on the game from age 6 and up---WGN was an important part of my life...)

Glory. Fame. Ecstasy. Simplicity. Purity. Speed. Power. Adoration. Love. "Let's play two."

Excitement. The long ball. The walk off homer. The game changer. The comeback. Frustration to jubilation in one instant, one mere swing of the bat.

Despondence on the mound. Blank stares in the outfield. Silence in the stands. Millions cheering across the land, on porches, in cars, in living rooms, in bar rooms and restaurants; men standing for joy, children clapping and whooping, mothers smiling in recognition of a phenomenon that they may not 'get', but acknowledge and appreciate, sisters roling their eyes while others are just as consumed in the moment. The world reaches clarity, the bottom line of win or lose. The die has been cast and we are made whole in absolute celebratory euphoria, or on the same coin but other extreme, we slowly breathe in and journey the long, long trip back through the losing tunnel of our soul...The Home Run brings both life and death.

The Long Ball. How it soars! How it leaves its indelible trajectory on our insides, waking and sleeping thoughts and hopes, the innermost recesses of what makes us tick, help us understand life and death and all those complicated important things...

And then back to us idealistic winners, the fans and followers of the winning home run dinger, because that is how we do see ourselves, no matter how many setbacks or decades of futility...

One man, head down, clearing the bases, ninth inning or much beyond...

Victory and completion. Blood, sweat, preparation and tears pays off at last. Perfection.

And he is ours. He wears my stripes. He goes out and does it every day, just like my dad.

And he hit it square. All of it. Game over. C'mon home, hero. Touch every one. Four bases forming a geometric diamond (rhombus or square, take your pick), and the march is sublime, humble and final.

Exultation.

The home run.  

Heroes loom bigger than life, even in the "inconsequential" box scores of the local paper. Hemingway knew this in his classic "The Old Man and the Sea." Box scores in Cuba. Box scores and HRs...

Box scores were the original Internet.

And USA Today? Hello, hi-speed!

And us young men learn our swings, launch our whiffle pitches with our tricky grips, dream of grandeur, and see the real guys from April to October. Half our waking life.

And the names leave us spell bound: The Bambino, i.e. The Sultan of Swat, Joe Dimaggio, Ted Williams, Jackie Robinson, Willie Mays, Lou Gehrig, The Mick, Roberto Clemente, Hammerin' Hank, Harmon Killebrew...

And go back further: Ty Cobb, Cy Young, Shoeless Joe, Abner Doubleday, Babe Ruth, Babe Ruth, Babe Ruth...

And we know who to blame for the modern infatuation, fixation, obsession, iconizatiion.

That fat guy and his classic candy bar. We all live in his shadow.

And humble Hank proved consistency can breed excellence. Greatness through hard work. And race is secondary, because after all, we are the human race.

This is baseball. This is America.

This is who we are.

Amen.

And we now, safely into the 21st century, have the highest echelon, the Trinity of Sluggers.

Aaron is king of the TV era.

Ruth of radio days.

And Bonds of the Wireless age.

And who were these other demi-gods playing with our emotions, our psyches, our collective hearts and minds?

Why did we love or loathe them?

Willie Mays. 660.

Sammy Sosa. 600 and still ascending.

Frank Robinson. 586.

Ken Griffey, Jr. Hitting the big time.

Mark McGwire. 583.

Harmon Killebrew. 573.

Rafael Palmeiro. 569.

Reggie Jackson. 563.

Mike Schmidt. 548.

Mickey Mantle. 536.

Jimmie Foxx. 534.

Ted Williams. 521.

Willie McCovey. 521.

Ernie Banks. 512.

Eddie Matthews.511.

Mel Ott. 511.

Eddie Murray. 504.

Frank Thomas. (500 and counting---whoops, he is 21st for now, but soon will surpass a few of these lower tier kings).

And that leaves out other luminaries, McGriff and Gehrig, Musial and Stargell.

And in this Home Run Wireless era, we have the superstars and stat challengers  Thome, Ramirez, Rodriguez and Sheffield.

And 'roids and creatine be darned, we honestly do not care.

These heroes are flawed and human, but they are the Gods of swat, and this is achieved by no less than mortals.

And therefore, I say, Bonds is a timeless hero (anti-hero if you will), but a god of Americana, as Ruth and Aaron always will be, much like Jackie, Ted, Mick and Willie, Joe and Roberto...

Like them, love them, hate or despise them, these are the men that test our childhood dreams, probe our consciousnesses, awake and asleep, push us to dream and crash back down to reality, that life is not always a park with the world clearly defined from a mound, a plate, a diamond infield and the extenuating planes of fair play.

But often times, when that fateful pitch is thrown, and Babe back in the nasty depression of the 1930s, or Hank back in the strife torn 1960s and Vietnam/civil rights comedown of assasinations and presidential lows, or Barry in the ever diverse and diverging post modern times of the 21st century, these part mortals/ part eternal ones bring us to the highest heights, they reach in to our very souls if we can call it no other thing, and they bring us home.

Home to our earliest memories.

Home to our moms and dads.

Home to our fondest dreams of glory and ecstasy, innocent and pure.

And after all this rumination and nostalgia over a "silly" game, I must say:

Life is great, God does smile down on this pasttime, and 756 is not any old number.

It is a number that is our highest aspiration, no matter who we are or where we live in this vast continent of the ever diverse world.

And here is hoping that a Ken, or an Alex, or maybe even an Albert or a Vladimir may some day give us further resonant reasons for adulation.

And Frank and Manny and Jim and Gary are welcome, too.

And I thank them for their hard work.

They are emblems of what is right in our great nation.

Thanks, again, for your childhood dreams and adult endeavors.

Sincerely,

Papa Clinch, Foxsports blogger.